


A Shot in the Dark

by Lethermindwander



Series: The Rose and the Nightingale [2]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Caretaking, Christine is sneaky, Comfort, Couch Cuddles, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Hugs, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jealousy, Kindness, Light Angst, Love Confessions, Romance, Shyness, and Erik is clueless, but what's new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24895633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lethermindwander/pseuds/Lethermindwander
Summary: Erik returns to the house on the lake injured after being shot at by a distressed Raoul de Chagny. Christine tends to him and is forced to make a confession when he questions her feelings for the young Vicomte.
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Series: The Rose and the Nightingale [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1855063
Comments: 10
Kudos: 82





	A Shot in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is the first fic I'm sharing here, so please enjoy! It's meant to be set in the Kayverse but doesn't have any spoilers.

The damned boy shot at me.

Shot at and _grazed_ me.

Needless to say, the entire situation is quite humiliating.

Christine is so good to me—so sweet and kind and caring—but I cannot escape my infernal jealousy! It fills every inch of my being and closes in until it feels as though I shall burst of pure and utter hatred.

Apparently it had been so strong tonight that it once again led me to the accursed Chagny estate. I often wander to the opulent manor in the dead of night, long after Christine has retired, simply to _stare._ Not at the revoltingly charming property, which undoubtedly costs far more to upkeep than it’s worth, but rather at the young Vicomte himself—the infuriating dandy who happens to be _ever so taken with her!_

Raoul de Chagny! I hate him!

Though I suppose I truly can’t blame the poor sap as she _is_ infinitely lovely; it is only natural that a young man such as he should fall victim to her innate charms, as I inadvertently have. I must confess, however, that the sentiment is ineffective in preventing me from regularly wishing to wring his entitled neck!

Such thoughts often fill my head whilst observing the prat, and I must have communicated this through a vocal release of fury tonight as he’d quickly taken to the balcony outside of his bedroom, revolver in hand.

I, of course, hadn't been able to help myself and had taken to taunting the boy, which in turn resulted in my current plight. He shot at me from behind! As I had been _leaving_ for Christ’s sake! Had his aim been any less appalling, he likely would have killed me without so much as a second thought! But I don’t suppose that a monster, a creature— _a thing!—_ has a fighting chance in any such conflict, now does he?!

_A thing to be shot in the back!_

It was the first bullet that brushed my shoulder too closely for my liking, while the other two, by some miraculous stroke of luck, had gone wide. I’d nearly cried out but instead resolved to bite my tongue until it bled, not wishing to draw a crowd or be on display once more. 

And now here I am, having just returned to the house beyond the lake, the degrading wound in desperate need of attention.

Damn! I must have woken Christine!

Yes, here she comes, clad in a snow-white nightgown which perfectly complements the warmth of her complexion—the stunning image of a little angel incarnate, what with unpinned curls and eyes hazy from sleep.

“Erik, is everything alright?” she yawns, elegant brows knit gently in concern. “I could’ve sworn that you-“

“Yes, my dear,” I stiffly interject, attempting to disguise the burning pain in my arm. “I’m quite well, I assure you. Now, why don’t you go back to bed?”

_“You're hurt!”_

It is not a question but rather a heartfelt observation.

“Oh, you poor thing, you simply must sit down! I shall put on some tea and tend to your injury; just leave everything to me!” she fawns, promptly rushing to the kitchen as I obey.

Under normal circumstances, I most certainly do not find pleasure in being fussed over like some sort of invalid. But Christine is so very genuine, so terribly... _adorable_ in her attentions, that I cannot find it within myself to stop her.

She swiftly returns to where I’m seated in the drawing room, a bowl of water in one hand and a roll of bandages in the other. Placing them on the nearby table, she settles beside me where I finally notice the gleaming lines of faded tear tracks upon her angelic face.

The little dove has been crying?

“Your tea should be ready quite soon... May I?” she requests, uncertain as she fingers the torn sleeve of my jacket.

“If you must,” I sigh in displeasure. Difficult as it may be for a vicomte to comprehend, these custom-tailored dress suits are _hardly_ inexpensive—a salary of twenty thousand francs a month can only cover so many of my costly tastes, after all!

She giggles lightly, no doubt having identified the petty source of my grief. And it is only when she rips the fabric with strength far beyond the suggestion of her slight frame that I realise I am too late.

Hell! Her close proximity must be further addling my deranged mind!

_“Christine, no! I-“_

She says nothing, lips tightly pursed, as she takes in the pitiful collection of bruises and collapsed veins along the whole of my arm. Flinching instinctively, I ready myself for the cries of fear and disgust that I’m certain are to come.

Yet I peer down only to see her... tenderly tracing the offensive sight with a small hand, and gape stupidly when her lips follow. They are unbearably warm and soft, and I feel my eyes fluttering closed against my better judgement.

Oh, I would relive every hardship and terror of my miserable life if only never to wake from this euphoric dream...

Once her ministrations have ceased, I make an attempt to clear my head as she stares up at me with the most sorrowful expression I have ever seen. We _will_ be discussing this later, I immediately understand.

Breaking our gaze after a long moment, she begins to dab gently at my seared flesh, contemplative. Soon enough, however, the silence is shattered quite agreeably by her usual pleasant chatter.

"...Why I could hardly believe Meg would say such a thing myself!" she chirps, beaming radiantly at her own anecdote. "Though you really must be more careful, you know. Had the bullet hit much closer... If anything happened to you, I-“ She pauses suddenly as her voice breaks. “I am sure I'd be unable to bear it."

I see that she is fighting tears from beyond her thick lashes and mutter a curse under my breath.

How could I have been so thoughtless?!

“I apologise for worrying you,” I reply with difficulty, head hung with hot shame. “You must understand that I am unaccustomed to... this. To having anyone particularly care for my well-being.”

The admission lingers painfully in the air until Christine takes one of my hands into hers and smiles faintly, eyes warm.

"You have _me_ now.”

I bite my lip in order to suppress my grin.

“Yes. I suppose I do.”

She looks pleased with this and continues to treat my inglorious gash with extreme precision before dressing it neatly: “There!”

Remarkable woman.

She never ceases to amaze me...

“Thank you,” I say earnestly, examining her fine handiwork. “You did an excellent job.”

Her cheeks turn a rather fetching shade of red as she looks away.

“It was my pleasure! Though we can only hope it will heal properly, mind you... Now how exactly were you grazed?” she inquires softly, shifting the subject away from herself. “I cannot name many who'd be waltzing about with firearms this early in the morning.”

And I do not wish to tell her—do not wish for her to understand the depth of this unrelenting and profound animosity I hold for her dear childhood friend, _her handsome young suitor_ —so I instead set upon asking the question that has been plaguing my brain.

“Christine... why were you crying? Did something happen whilst I was away?”

Her lovely skin pales and she nearly drops her leftover gauze to the floor.

“Well, I wouldn’t wish to put you out...“ She swallows, dewy-eyed. “But I had the most awful dream! I was looking desperately for you, bawling and crying out your name, but I couldn't find you anywhere! And then I woke to look for you, and you were _gone_ and I... _I..!”_

She suddenly casts herself into my arms, body wracked with uncontrolled sobs, and I'm quite certain that my heart stops in my chest.

Although she has hugged me before—why she would wish such an undesirable thing upon herself, I shall never know—I'm afraid the act brings about this same effect each and every time. She is practically seated in my _l_ _ap_ for God’s sake, and her dark ringlets are teasing my arm, and she smells of honey and lavender and vanilla, and I feel as though I may simply die of my overwhelming love for her.

Not to mention that she has been dreaming of me! It had been a nightmare, of course, but even so!

“Oh, Christine, don't cry,” I murmur, finding the audacity to return her gesture in a feeble attempt at comfort; my stomach twists achingly at the sight of her tears and the fact that I had been the cause of them. “You know I can’t bear to see you cry, darling.”

A pure soul such as her own doesn’t deserve to be afflicted with night terrors, and I silently curse whatever cruel god had been responsible for permitting the grievous offence.

“I- I'm sorry,” she sniffles, wiping fervently at her flushed face. “But I'd like to stay this way if you wouldn't mind terribly...”

I more than happily comply, strengthening my grasp around her petite form.

She is so small, so very delicate in my arms, and I have the irrational fear that am I not mindful, she may break into a thousand little pieces as though she were made of glass.

But not all glass is fragile as it first appears.

Christine sighs delightedly in response to my deathly embrace, burrowing her head into my neck, and I find myself grateful for the mask as my ruined face burns brightly against its cool porcelain.

I can't imagine what I've done to merit such bliss...

To my great astonishment, several minutes pass in this extraordinary fashion. Throwing caution to the wind, I run a hand through her thick tresses—something I’ve longed to do for an eternity—dually marvelling at their silk-like texture and the sight of her approving smile. I stifle a gasp as she adjusts herself in such a way that our bodies mould together and I cradle the back of her head.

This is so very, _very_ improper...

And I daresay I don’t mind in the slightest.

 _“Oh, Erik..._ Surely you won’t _ever_ leave me all alone like that again,” she purrs, dainty hands clutching at my lapels enticingly. _“...Will you?”_

I shudder so violently that I quite nearly rupture something.

I’m fully aware that she must feel the racing of my heart through the layers of cloth between us, and oh, how I wish she only knew, wish I had the nerve to _tell her_ that she is the sole reason for its beating!

But her alluring face is mere inches from my withered one, and I can hardly fathom focusing on her words—much less forming a coherent response to them!

_Say something, you bloody idiot! Anything!_

“I... er-no! Well-um... uh...”

How _very_ articulate.

My vision goes blurry as she winds her arms about my neck. Oh, she is closing her eyes, and I can taste her sweet breath against my mouth as her lips lightly graze mine...

She is going to kiss me... She _wants_ to kiss me..! She is going to-

The damned kettle begins to whistle from the adjoining room, startling us both, and the spell is broken all too soon.

Christine groans, slowly rising and glancing down at me apologetically. “I'm sorry, Erik... Please, excuse me!”

And with this, she kisses each of my hands in succession before once again heading to the kitchen. I sit in a daze for what may only be five minutes or all of five years, a hand pressed incredulously to my buzzing lips.

What the devil was that?! We had practically—she had wished to—

...Does she truly love me as I do her? The mere _idea_ of such a thing is simply laughable and yet-

She had quite literally thrown herself at me!

I know that she would never stoop so low as to torment me, that she at least respects me enough as a man to be frank with her emotions, but my past interactions with the human race have not precisely yielded me the most pleasant of results. And while I wish to trust her with my very life—to tear down some of the walls I have built to preserve myself from hurt—I am unable to bear the thought of any more pain.

There have, of course, been women captivated by the mask’s unspoken mystery. _Or those like the khanum_ —transfixed by the horror beneath it with a sort of morbid attraction. Yet the prospect of being _loved_ as opposed to exalted or revered from afar...

But I have no mind for such things. Not now after that exquisite scene pulled from my darkest fantasies; Christine Daaé will surely be the death of me one way or another.

Christ! I've become a sentimental old fool...

Shakily standing from my seat, I decide to change into something a touch more comfortable before she returns.

. . .

When I make my way back to the drawing room, Christine and Ayesha are huddled together on the black leather couch, the former stroking the latter's cream-coloured fur with guarded admiration.

I am forced to admit that it is the single most charming sight I've ever laid eyes on.

“You’re back!” she smiles, gesturing to a steaming cup of tea on the table. “I am glad.” 

She moves to unravel herself from the blanket she's enveloped in, and Ayesha, evidently having seen this as a threat, scurries off as their wary truce is broken. Christine rolls her eyes before motioning to the now vacant space beside her.

“Join me, Erik! I’m sure you’re still terribly cold from having been outside!”

I choke on a breath.

“Y- You would wish for me to join you under the...” My once-melodic voice is a rasp as I taper off, swallowing in an ill-fated attempt to regain my composure. 

“As a matter of fact, I would."

She is so blissfully unaware!

“Well, I- That is to say... But that would hardly be proper,” I weakly protest, my resolve crumbling with each passing second until it is no more than dust drying my throat.

She pouts prettily at my refusal, crossing her arms over her chest.

I cannot see those lips without reliving the sensation of them barely brushing my own.

"Really now, Erik... Don't be shy!"

 _"S-shy?!_ No one has dared to... I am not-"

 _“I_ am daring to, so come here and prove it!”

There are times when I believe her fully conscious of the power she holds over me.

“Very well,” I grouse, skulking over to her.

And it is not until I am seated with the combined warmth of the blanket and her shape sculpted to mine, that I realise I _had_ been quite chilled. Throughout my travels from the scorching deserts of Persia to the frigid mountains of Russia, I have known both blistering heat and bitter cold.

But I am not burning, nor am I freezing. I am _warm._

And I rather think I’m enjoying it.

“Now I do believe you were just going to tell me how you managed to be shot at in the middle of Paris at this ungodly hour,” she quips, nestling into the lush material of my dressing gown.

"Christine," I begin. "I know you wish to-"

But the sheer and unadulterated look of concern in those fair blue eyes effectively moves my heart of stone, and I find myself responding to this dangerous assertion—albeit beneath a protective veneer of grim sarcasm.

“I’m afraid, my dear, that this was the doing of the Vicomte de Chagny.”

A slender hand flies to her mouth in disbelief. _“Raoul?!_ But he could never-“

I _despise_ the way that she says his name—the way I instantly hear all of the fond memories associated with it—and the jealousy returns at full force, nearly as ugly as the monster under its control.

“The boy is obviously in love with you,” I interrupt cruelly, jerking from her hold. “He was simply attempting to dispose of his rival for your favour. And why shouldn’t you return the affection? Think of the opportunities he could afford you!”

Her lovely head tilts in apparent confusion at this.

“Rival for my- _Erik..._ whatever do you mean?” 

Hell! What had possessed me to say all that?! 

_Now you’ve no choice but to tell her!_

The room goes still, and I hope with all of my might that she will drop this perilous line of questioning.

But as she studies me in silence, brows creased as though in great anticipation, I know she will not.

“Well, Christine, I... For quite some time now—long before I revealed myself to you—I have..."

“You’ve what?” she asks patiently.

“Surely you must know!” I snap, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against my thigh. "Despite my best efforts, I haven't exactly been able to hide it."

And when next she speaks, voice cool and unwavering, I nearly cringe at just how apparent the sorry situation must have been.

"You love me."

My hands tighten on an arm of the couch until I have lost all feeling in them.

 _"_ _...Yes,"_ I manage, suddenly more vulnerable and exposed before this solitary young woman than all of Paris.

_Please, God, let her love me and I promise to be good forever..._

"Oh, Erik," she says finally. "I think I have always known; I've always known but needed to hear you say it." She falters, eyes downcast, and I am unable to meet them for fear of what I may find. "Our, er... _encounter_ earlier was something I've wanted for a while now, and you certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself! I know there is the matter of Raoul to consider, but-"

_Raoul..._

Raoul!

She must hate me!

"Of course!" I sneer, pushing past the trampled remnants of my pride. "I don't suppose any of that matters when you've your handsome Vicomte to run off with!"

"I would hardly call him _my_ Vicomte!" she huffs.

"But you wish that he was, do you not?!"

And that is when the realisation strikes me at last—it all makes perfect sense!

"If he is not already, that is!"

"What-"

But I am too far gone.

"This was all a clever plot to seduce me!"

"Erik, _please,_ I-"

"Yes, after you’d gained my trust and disarmed me with your feminine wiles, you planned to elope with your boy!”

Logic and reason have vacated my frenzied mind, leaving only incensed and murderous anger towards _that bloody Vicomte_ in their wake!

Oh, I will kill him!

“My feminine _whats?!_ That's enough!” Christine retorts, clearly affronted. She’s always had quite a spine, and this is one of the few instances during which I wish it didn’t make her even more attractive. "Everything you're saying is absolutely untrue! While there _is_ someone I'm in love with, I can assure you that it is _not_ Raoul and that I...“ She stops to catch her breath, and I turn my back on her, overcome with betrayal.

 _“...Who?”_ I ask bluntly, fists tightly clenched. I know I shall have to honour her decision—that I must find the courage to let her go with some semblance of dignity—but I cannot be left without the name of my unknown adversary.

"Good Lord!" she exclaims as though it were painfully obvious. "I am talking about _you,_ Erik!"

I-

What..?

Surely I misheard her! I must have- I must have...

"What do you- I..."

"I love you," she reiterates, the coveted words finally reaching my ears.

I've made it a lifelong priority of mine to study all facets of human nature; to fully understand the inner workings of a society I will never be a part of. Accordingly, I have extensively researched the subject of psychology and the vital nature of tells when a person is lying.

And she is not presently exhibiting a single one.

Oh, God...

_She loves me!_

She loves me, she loves me, she loves me!

"Oh, Christine, I am sorry, I... I didn't-"

She touches a hand to my lips and I freeze, the space around us closing into a muddled haze of compassion and remorse and longing.

"I forgive you," she breathes, once again so impossibly near. "I forgive you."

“Christine...” I mumble helplessly, and the distance between us evaporates as her mouth descends upon mine.

There is no room for thought.

My head swims pleasurably as her full, pink lips move lightly against my own. I register the salt of tears upon my tongue, yet am unable to say which of us has shed them as my mind is soon shrouded in a rapturous fog. All of my hate and anguish are lost in its misty depths, leaving me with nothing but reverent wonder when we draw apart at last, gasping for air as though we had both been submerged in water.

I really do begin to cry then, and she holds me as though she never intends upon letting go until the two of us are all remain.

. . .

It is a long while later when we have finally ceased kissing—to my great dismay—that Christine presents me with a rather curious statement.

"While you may have been utterly ridiculous in your accusations tonight, I might have deceived you in one minor regard."

"And what is that, my love?" I inquire, running my lips along her forehead with a newfound boldness.

"...Perhaps I didn't have a nightmare at all." Her enchantingly unabashed expression betrays the innocence of her tone.

I blink accordingly.

"But... you were crying, were you not?"

"I'm an actress _,_ Erik! Among other things, of course. I simply wanted you to hold me! And a kiss would've been quite nice," she muses breezily. "Though I don't suppose _t_ _hat_ will be much of a concern any longer!"

Laughing aloud at her delightfully nonchalant air, I dare to claim her mouth with my own that I might absorb her smile.

"I suspect you may be right..."

**Author's Note:**

> So what did you think? Love it? Hate it? If it's the former, you're in luck, because I have lots more planned for these two! If it's the latter... uh, sorry lol.


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